Blood Bound
by lara-surreality
Summary: Eight survivours. Eight ficlets. One letter.


**Blood Bound**

by Lara  
October 2005

**Do not archive, translate or otherwise use this fic without permission.** You are welcome to link to this page.

This is an amateur effort and not intended to infringe on the rights of C.S. Friedman. No monetary profit is being made.

Thank you to Alice for beta reading and to Mariem for valuable input on Narilka.

* * *

The house was heavily warded, a formidable defence against demons, wraiths and whatever else might roam the night with less than charitable intentions. Sorcerers had learned quickly how to protect from such creatures, even before they had begun to study other possible applications for the fae. They had learned much in their struggle to stay safe when the whole planet seemed to turn against them.

But not enough, for the wardings failed to keep out the one danger they were supposed to ban from the house, first and foremost. Entrance was easily gained. A partially UnWorked warding at the front door, a Working to shatter the lock into icy fragments and overcome the physical barrier. Gerald Tarrant moved silently through the darkened hallways, smiling to himself at the seeming naiveté of not employing guards. Not that they could have stopped him, but they tended to make most humans feel more secure, for some reason. He had never quite seen the appeal, since stationing guards meant trusting them to a large extent. It might work in the case of an army camp, but he had always been wary of it in more private circumstances.

Following the glowing currents, he quickly discovered the whereabouts of tonight's errand. Not prey this time, at least not yet. He had more important things in mind. For years he had planned this, had waited for the best moment. It had come now, and he was ready.

A door handle turned easily under his hand and for a moment he felt something akin to anger at this perceived carelessness. Such arrogance, to believe in safety! Or was it resignation, pure and simple? In the past five years, he had proven that no lock would keep him out. The lesson had been driven home, and perhaps this perceived lack of caution was merely fatalistic acceptance.

He entered silently and took a few steps into the room before halting where shadows met the faint light of Prima shining through the gaps in the curtains. For a long time he stood still, listening and watching. A richly furnished room, but it lacked any personal touch, almost as if its owner was merely a guest and had not lived here for the last five years. No books on the shelves, no clothes laid out for the next day. No writings on the desk, no drawings on the walls.

The currents flowed erratically in this room, disturbed by the figure on the wide bed. Each breath sent ripples through them, marks of fear and a myriad other emotions. A heady mixture; he was beginning to value it for what it gave him, but the present richness was uncommon. It called to him and he opened himself to it, breathed it deeply and felt it fill him until his body thrummed in cadence with the rhythm of the sleeper's unconscious fear.

He must have made some soft sound of pleasure then, because the figure stirred underneath the blankets before sitting up in one swift move. Wide eyes stared into the darkness, bright with panic.

Watching the reflection of the frantic heartbeat in the fae like ripples created by a stone on the smooth surface of water, he waited until the room's occupant noticed that one shadow was out of place. When the wide eyes focused on him he felt a wave of terror hit him, so sweet in its promises.

They remained locked in this tableau, the frozen figure on the bed and the spectre in the shadows. The currents trembled, and if it hadn't been for his presence, demons would already have manifested where the flows twisted into bright knots. His proximity overwhelmed their own power and he felt them struggle and fade even as the air in the room seemed to thicken with fear. It awakened a sharp hunger in him, precise and almost tangible. He had felt it before, but this time the horror struck a chord inside him and he did not fight it, shivering with pleasure as it rushed through him and quenched the hunger. So much more satisfying than the crude, blunt reality of blood. Was it because this time the fear was not an unknown dread of whatever might lurk in the dark, but born of an acute awareness of his identity and what he stood for? He would have to conduct further research on it, but this initial reaction was promising. It might just rid him of the distasteful necessities of feeding upon humans. Nourishment created from pure terror - it bore looking into.

The figure on the bed moved, and instantly his full attention refocused again. On light brown hair, pale in the shallow light of Erna's largest moon. On fine, handsome features, so alike his own. On eyes, grey irises almost invisible around pupils wide with panic. It pleased him to see recognition and knowledge in them.

"It is bad manners not to greet your father, Eric," he said mildly.

A discord of anger disrupted the currents even further.

"You are no longer my father," the young man spat. "Not since that day!"

"Blood does not change, nor do genes," he countered, annoyed at himself for the effort it took not to let his anger at such insolence show. "And besides, mirrors don't lie. You are mine."

"Have you come to finish it, then?" his son asked, currents changing from anger back to fear.

"Why would I do that?"

Eric stared at him. "Because I escaped."

A dark smile crossed his face. "As I intended you to."

The terror reached a new peak and he drank it in deep breaths.

"Why?"

"Why?" he took a step towards the bed and saw his son flinch. "You are mine," he repeated calmly. "This family is mine. You live because you are my firstborn and my heir. And you are the guarantee of this family's continuation."

The Tarrant line. His creation, even more so than the Church of the Unification. The title, the lands, the power, the fortune - he had achieved them and he would see it all endure through the ages, see what his descendants could accomplish with his legacy. See the spark of his wife in them. See his own humanity, sacrificed to the dark power which sustained him now.

"You are mad," his son whispered. "They were right – you've lost your mind. You must have, or you wouldn't expect me to simply go on and live a normal life!"

"You will," he said calmly.

"No!"

"Yes. You will marry, you will sire children. Because if you do not, you will die as your brother and sister did." He paused, again relishing the fear-born trembles in the currents. So vastly satisfying. "You do not want to die, or you would do more than just look at that little lethal flask in your bedside drawer. So I suggest that you live, and that you do as I say. As long as you follow two simple rules, you will not see me again, and neither will your children, and their children after them."

Eric stared at him, eyes filled with fear.

"Two conditions, Eric. First, the Tarrants will always remain faithful supporters of the Church and give whatever aid is required. Political influence, financial support, social lobbying - anything it takes. I made the Church, and I will see it last."

"And second?" The whisper was barely audible.

"That Merentha stays the family seat, and that there will be no Neocount after me. This one legacy I deny you. See to it that your heir is aware of these conditions."

His son looked at him, beyond all fear and anger now. He could see it in the currents and taste it in their changed flavour, closer to perfection than anything he had tasted before.

He did not wait for an answer, simply left as silently as he had come. Time would tell whether his commands would be obeyed. And time he had.

"You knew what would happen," Gerald Tarrant said, looking down at the trembling, bleeding figure of his great-grandson, crouched at his feet. "You were warned. And yet you couldn't resist."

He pressed the blade of his sword a little more firmly against the exposed neck, inhaled deeply as a line of blood welled up and the scent enveloped him, spiced with the more delicate taste of terror.

Three generations. Was that how long it took to forget about the warnings he had issued? Nicholas Tarrant had known of the conditions placed upon the family's survival. And one of them had been heeded - the Tarrants were among the most devout and at the same time most influential followers of the Church. But the second condition had been violated by last week's proclamation that Nicholas had reclaimed his family's hereditary title.

"There will never be another Neocount of Merentha," he said, half-closing his eyes as the horror thickened. "I am the first, and the only one."

The sword cut deeper and he watched impassively as his descendant struggled to escape, forcing broken limbs to move. He let him crawl towards the castle's gate, always a step behind him, feeling the terror mount at being pursued like this. It called to him to feed upon it, to sate the hunger that had risen in response to the presence of such nourishment. But he quenched that urge fiercely. This was not about fulfilling basic needs - it was punishment for disobedience.

"You knew the price when you tried to seize the title," he hissed, swift steps carrying him in front of the shivering man. "Now you will pay it."

With a sharp stroke he brought down his sword on his great-grandson's neck, then turned away after a glance at the severed head lying in a spreading puddle of blood.

The necessity of this execution angered him. His warning should have been heeded by more than merely two generations. Nicholas had known the terms, as had his father. But the knowledge alone had obviously not been enough, or he would not be here this very night. Had Nicholas Tarrant believed the tales of him to be nothing more than fairy tales? Fanciful stories of an infamous ancestor? They would have to learn that this was a legend with a very real core.

Cleaning his sword, he considered the problem. A spoken warning had not been enough, not when it was a matter of being faced with an ancestor supposedly dead and buried at least half a century ago. He had to find a way to make his demands and their timelessness clearer, or this would not be the last instance of defiance. Nicholas had been the oldest of four brothers; the next sibling might try to follow in his footsteps regardless of what had happened this night. And he had neither time nor inclination to constantly monitor his descendants' compliance.

A better way to teach the lesson had to be found.

He looked at the castle he had built four generations ago in the hopes that it would forever mark the centre of his newly founded house. A romantic, foolish notion, from tonight's point of view, but back then he had thought it possible. And it still _was_ possible, he supposed, with the right incentives.

Nicholas's family slept behind those dark windows. Not just his wife and children, but also his siblings, his cousins, his nephews and nieces. The Tarrant line had flourished in the last generation and there was no worry that the house would die out before it could be properly established. Not with such numbers.

And yet... how many were necessary for the continued survival of the line? Only one. A few more, to ward against unfortunate accidents. But not so many.

Sword in hand, he advanced towards the main entrance. Divinings would determine each occupant's likelihood of prolonged survival and the chances of siring children. He would base his choice of a successor on the results, and kill the others.

Bloodshed was always an excellent teacher.

"Why?" Mikal Tarrant gasped, stepping backwards and stumbling over the body of his dead sister. Quickly he scrambled to his feet again, dishevelled and bloodied and pale, and retreated further until a wall stopped him.

"Because I will not suffer such insolence. I dictate the conditions of this family's continued survival, and you have broken the pact. Now you will face the result." The former Prophet followed Mikal, carefully avoiding the blood on the stone floor so his boots would not be stained.

_Six generations_, he thought as he drew the knife that had put an end to Almea Tarrant and her younger children and sank it into the chest of his descendant. Was that how long the warning would hold? Credibility was such a fickle thing. A grandfather's experiences might be believed, but his recollections of what his own grandfather had told him obviously could be classed as fireside tales all too easily.

Maybe he ought to make it plain to Mikal's second son that from now on the heir had to know every detail of the conditions and the repercussions of disobedience. It might prevent the necessity of a repeated purging of the line, with all its risks. Mikal's son had good prospects of siring children, and in addition his looks were pleasing. The first time, after Nicholas Tarrant's thoughtless attempt at defiance, the choice of a survivor had been mostly coincidental. But it was much more intriguing to select someone alike to himself. It would be interesting to see how long certain genetic traits could survive. A pity that intelligence was not as easily inherited as appearance.

He watched as Mikal Tarrant stopped breathing, then made his way down to the small improvised dungeon to fetch his chosen successor and give him a very clear idea of the price of rebellion.

The moment Tristran Tarrant died, true night fell and the dark fae flowed from the shadows. Such tantalizing power, and together with the intense flavour of terror it made him forget some of his anger that after seven generations had heeded the warnings, he had had to reassert himself once more.

Karina Tarrant was the first woman who had attempted to claim his title. The offence was made worse by the fact that she was only a Tarrant by marriage, not by blood, the widow of the last head of the family. Who had died under rather mysterious circumstances less than two years ago.

It was the first time he took anyone down belowground again, past his library into the workroom. The rooms had not been used since the Prophet's time, but from the looks of it someone was brave enough to come and see that everything was kept in good condition. And whoever did that added to the dark fae at each visit until the unease had left an almost tangible impression. It pleased him to see that his legacy was being kept in good order, and also that the woman he dragged into the workroom was fae-sensitive enough to react to the sensations mirrored in the currents. She had screamed herself hoarse by now, though she had already seen all the others who had paid for her insolence and had to know that nobody would come to her aid.

In the time of another seven generations the number of Tarrants had grown, and they now lay scattered throughout the castle and the courtyard, many of them still dressed for the celebration. One of them had reached the stables and escaped on one of the unhorses; he would be hunted down later.

One more attempt at placing the Neocountal coronet on a head where it did not belong. One more almost-eradication of the Tarrants. He had given up hope that it would be the last. A few generations of obedience, then someone would get ideas and whisper them in the heir's ear. And the lesson would have to be taught anew.

The Hunter left Karina Tarrant on the ground next to his former worktable, bound by fae-born intangible chains. Ignoring her for a moment, he took a look at the work of his mortal years. He had left the Earth artefacts here to see whether his descendants would share his passion for studying them. Just as he had left them his library, still one of the most extensive collections of Earth lore on Erna. He had been disappointed on both accounts - his collection was untouched, as were his books. Too late now to take them back, though. He had gifted them to his son after he had struck his pact with the Unnamed and sacrificed his wife and younger children. Such a gift could not be taken back. And he had made copies of the books not easily available, so he had not lost them entirely. But the Earth artefacts were out of his reach. He had obtained other collections by now, by means of purchase, persuasion, threat and sometimes murder. Only his own former possessions were unreachable, since his only reason for approaching his descendants was when they ignored one of the conditions he had placed upon their continued existence.

Karina moaned and he returned his attention to her.

"You wanted to be Neocountess?" he asked coldly. "Then you should have inquired whether that is possible. If you had done so, you would have known that I have forbidden it." He bent down, smiled as he saw her flinch. "Your children are dead," he told her. She moaned again, and her eyes were bright with tears. "All of them. I would have liked to let a legitimate heir succeed, but I will not have your blood in my descendants. How fortunate that your late husband could not keep his cock in his breeches during his last campaign. So I won't even have to interrupt the main line."

The Hunter granted Maximilien Tarrant a moment to compose himself. Not compassion so much as sheer necessity; the young man was barely coherent after discovering the remnants of the coronation festivities.

Five generations this time. That seemed to be how long humans were willing to believe in the existence of a threat. They were aware of what had happened in the past and that the family had almost vanished five times before. But they attributed it to war, to chaos, to unknown assailants. So unwilling to face the truth. And the Church strengthened them in these beliefs.

His Church. Of course it would be inopportune if it became known that their former Prophet of the Law was still alive and that he had turned against his own descendants six times by now. They kept him secret enough as it was; they couldn't erase the common knowledge that the Prophet and the first Neocount of Merentha had been the same person, but they _had_ erased his name from the chronicles and made a secret of what had happened once they had chosen to push him away because he had insisted that sorcery was necessary for now. Far better to let everybody think that the Tarrants were cursed in some way than to reveal unwelcome details of what they called the Prophet's Fall. The refusal of acknowledging the Prophet's name angered him, but it also had the welcome side-effect of enabling him to use his real name without having to worry about recognition and unwelcome attention. Not that many would call him by name anymore; he was _Your Excellency_ to his servants and the Hunter to everybody else.

Maximilien's breathing had slowed again and he judged him able to comprehend the situation by now. So he repeated the conditions he had lain down so long ago. Support the Church of the Unification in word and deed. Do not claim the title of Neocount. Five tried before, and five times everybody wearing the name Tarrant paid for it. The firstborn son must always know. And there must be descendants.

The last had never been a problem, which fascinated him to some extent. It would not have been surprising if one of the Survivors, as they were now commonly called, had found himself unable or unwilling to sire children. Or if someone had not been interested enough in the opposite gender to procreate. The odds would have been high, in the course of twenty-six generations. And while he had always Divined the future prospects of the men in the main line whenever he had chosen one to carry on, he had not taken any further influence to ensure the succession.

Obviously his descendants found it easier to beget children than to keep their hands off his title and coronet, as proven six times now by the number of dead left after each attempt.

He warned Maximilien Tarrant not to repeat his eldest brother's mistake, impatient when all the young man managed to do was nod. Twenty-three, and the sight of corpses left him dumbstruck. He thought of himself at that age and found it hard to believe that times could have changed so much.

The last remnants of blood drained from the severed head, leaving dark stains on the precious fine-knotted carpet. They fell in a curious pattern, not quite circular but nevertheless with a pleasing look of symmetry. Coincidence, since the previous owner of the head hadn't had any sense whatsoever for aesthetics. The damage wreaked during the execution of all but one family member would ensure that at least the hideous furnishings would have to be cast out and replaced.

A noise behind him made the Hunter turn, severed head still held by the hair. More droplets fell in a wide semicircle.

"I told him," Doran Tarrant whispered, eyes fixed on his father's lifeless face. "I told him this would happen."

He remained still, interested by this reaction, and observed as his chosen survivor took in the sight of his dead family. Not a lot of bodies, this time; only two generations had passed since Maximilien Tarrant had encountered a similar scene. The defiance had come unexpected, since the memory should still have been fresh for at least twenty more years But come it had, and he had had to react.

"Why couldn't you listen?" Doran Tarrant was asking his father's head, seemingly unaware that it was still being held aloft by the one responsible for the beheading. "Damn you! I told you not to do this!"

"Then I trust you will also tell your children," he said calmly, taking control of the situation. "Since you seem to understand your father's mistake."

The wide grey eyes focused on him. An easy choice, this time, since all the others had favoured their grandmother in looks, dark and sturdy rather than Doran Tarrant's lighter colouring and finer bones. Besides, a quick Divining had shown that he was practically certain to sire an entire flock of children. And he was fae-sensitive; an additional benefit. The trait was too irregular to make any choices based upon it, but in time this serendipity might fade.

"I tried to talk him out of it," Doran Tarrant said, his voice hollow. It was plain that he was somewhat shell-shocked. "I told him that great-grandfather hadn't died in an accident and that grandfather wasn't insane when he insisted that it was the first Neocount. I told him! But he said they were only ghost stories and that I shouldn't fear nursery tales."

"You should not fear them," the Hunter said, letting go of the head. It hit the floor with a dull thud and rolled until it came to lie on one pale cheek. "But you should know how to distinguish between fact and fiction."

He felt rather pleased with his choice this time. Doran Tarrant needed no lengthy explanations, and he would certainly be very insistent about obeying the rules. It made the Hunter inclined to be a little more considerate with this descendant than he would normally be. Not that he would have spared him the sight of his dead family even if he had known about the young man's cassandric misfortune. That lesson was too integral to be left out. But there was not so much need to inspire fear; that Doran felt more anger at his father than terror of the murderer of his family also reflected in the currents, making them - and in turn him - more mellow.

"I have studied the family history," Doran Tarrant said at a sudden. He was amazingly composed. Too calm, really; reality would catch up with him in the morning and it would not let go easily. "The first Survivor, Eric Tarrant... he speaks of two main conditions in his notes. And one seems to never have been broken."

"That is correct," he answered, amused by this curiosity. "You have never strayed from the Church."

"So it was always the other. And I think it should have been obeyed, but... did it really merit all those murders? Only for a mere title?"

Amusement changed to irritation in a heartbeat.

"A mere title to you," he said coldly. "I have done much to earn it, and it was awarded for as long as I would live, or until I chose to pass it on." He stared at Doran until the young man looked away. "I have refused to give it to my descendants. I have warned you. And yet you keep trying. For a mere title."

He noticed that there were specks of blood on his glove and worked a quick Cleansing.

"I still live," he said, satisfied when he saw fear dominate the currents. "And if my title is claimed once again, this will repeat itself. I suggest that you make this plain to your descendants and that you do it better than you did with your father."

Andrys Tarrant had been a difficult choice. The black sheep of the family, no stranger to alcohol and drugs, and highly likely to get himself killed in an amorous adventure within a few years. There was the possibility that the sight of his dead relatives might drive him out of his mind.

And yet there had not been any real alternatives. Not after seeing him for the first time. The chances of physical attributes being preserved this well over thirty-nine generations were staggeringly small. In light of this, flaws of character were excusable. He would watch the latest Survivor closely, and he would ensure that there was another generation of Tarrants. Coercion was easier with the weak-minded, anyway.

He would see to it. Once he had found out the source of the disturbances in the fae he had discerned. And once he knew whether the destruction of the loremaster's Fae Shoppe in Jaggonath had anything to do with it.

To the Lady Narilka Tarrant, Neocountess of Merentha

Signed and sealed this 11th day of January, 1250 A.S.

My Lady Tarrant,

Allow me to express my congratulations at the birth of your son. I hear that you and he both are well, and I hope that this shall remain so. Please also pass my best wishes to your husband, unless you believe it is advisable not to do so.

My reason for writing to you is not of a solely congratulatory nature. I would also like to remind you of a promise made to you four years ago. On that night the Hunter gave you his word that he would never hurt you and that you would also be safe from his creations. This vow has cost him, and it was broken by his servant when he abducted and threatened you. The Hunter, as you undoubtedly know, is no longer in a position to make amends.

In some regards I consider myself to be heir to the Hunter's affairs. Therefore it falls onto me to atone for his broken vow. I can no longer repair the damage done to you, since you have done so yourself - in a quite admirable way, if I may say so - and you have suffered no lasting misfortune stemming from your captivity. Therefore I must offer you another form of compensation. You may ask one favour of me, Lady Tarrant. Whatever it is, I will do my utmost to see your will fulfilled. I hope you will allow me to regain the honour lost when the Hunter broke his word to you.

There is another reason for this letter. Your husband will most likely have told you of the first Neocount of Merentha and of the role he has played in the history of the Tarrants. Due to recent circumstances, specifically the death of the first Neocount at your husband's hands, the title has legally passed on to him. I wish to stress, for your benefit, that any conditions which have in the past been placed upon the title are null and void and no longer apply to you and your descendants.

The second condition imposed upon the Tarrants has been waived as well, although I will express my personal hope that the tradition of being supporters of the Church of the Unification will continue. Your husband is an important figure of the Church now and he has inspired many to begin to share his faith. I am also pleased to hear that you have assumed your husband's faith, now that the goddess Saris has released you from her service. I have spoken to her in the past and I have found her to be in favour of the Church and the Prophet's dream. You may also find it interesting to know that her goals and mine currently coincide.

I have allowed myself to include something which has been your possession in the past and which has been recovered in the Forest, or what remains of it. A medallion, gifted to you by the Hunter. It no longer holds any power, but I believe you may wish to have it as a reminder.

Regards,

the first and former Neocount of Merentha


End file.
